‘Try and stay on topic, Fabian,’ I tease. ‘Edward the therapist. The guy you made me have six sessions with. AndMorning Tea’s new relationship counsellor on the couch.’
He looks at me with surprise. ‘You meanyourtherapist? Sexy Edward in the suits?’ He shakes his head. ‘Didn’t he tell you, babe?’ He sniffs. ‘He did it for a few weeks and they offered him the job, but he turned them down flat. Not interested. And believe me, I know how much they were offering him. It must’ve hurt. No, they had to get some awful therapist called Paul for the full-time gig in the end. Reallycold and unfeeling – and not even sexy to make up for it. Everyone hates him.’
I stop dead in the street. Fabian stops too, looking at me questioningly.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘Why would Edward turn down the job?’
He shrugs. ‘Well, I don’t think he ever wanted it in the first place, to be honest. I’m reliably informed – because I’m informed about everything, darling, especially when shagging the head producer – that Edward was put in quite a tricky position. He was initially offered the interim role, covering for you while you were off. We were trying to persuade him to take on those six weeks of therapy sessions with you and Spencer kept pushing him to also take the temp job on the show.’ Fabian wiggles an eyebrow. ‘I think that little toad knew how popular Edward’s…lookwould be with viewers.’ He smiles like he’s picturing him. ‘Anyway, apparently Edward kept saying no, but then Spencer, the awful little shit, told him the only other couch therapist he could get on short notice would be replacing you for good. So, Edward was forced to choose between taking over for a couple of months, or your job being given to someone else altogether.’
I start walking again and Fabian falls into step with me.
My head spins.
Edward didn’t want the job. He only took it to keep it safe for me. He turned down the full-time role.
For me?
Why didn’t he tell me!
What if…
No, that’s ridiculous.
I can’t think about this. My life is finally coming together again. I’m back on track. I’ve got my new role with the charity. I’ve got this book – this memoir! – I’m excited for. Plus the promise of some financial security. Why would I complicate things by questioning this decision I’ve already made?
Because what if it was a decision made on a faulty premise? Fabian and I reach the station and say our goodbyes, heading in different directions. Me for home, him back to work. I climb on board my train carriage, my head spinning, still trying to process what Fabian said. This feels like such a mess.
I have to stop this. I have a plan, a new future of my choosing. One that is healthy and uncomplicated. Edward and I would always have been dysfunctional. He was my therapist, for goodness sake! We’d never really be able to get past that. It’s unethical, it’s broken, it’s wrong headed. And I don’t want to make those kinds of choices for myself anymore.
There. Decision made and it’s the same one as before. Better choices. It’s the right thing to do.
No more Edward.
And that’s that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
TWO MONTHS LATER
The text comes at lunchtime on a Friday.
It’s a warm, blustery day in late October and I’m in the office at the charity centre, having a break. I’m halfway through writing a chapter about being the Frankenstein Feminist. A moniker I’m still known by around the centre. Mostly, everyone thinks my brush with fame – or notoriety – is hilarious, but a few of the women look at me with wonder, like I’m some kind of celebrity. One of them said my rant inspired her to get away from her husband. I went home and cried a lot after that.
It’s been a genuinely amazing experience, working here. I wake up every day ready to bounce out of bed and into work. I never felt like this withMorning Tea, not even on the best of days.
I’m making a difference. It’s really genuinely special and I’m grateful.
The text is from Arshiya.
We have been having a raging debate about whether to invite you to the therapy collective dinner – which is tonight btw. The woman who took over your office can’t make it, so there’s definitely room at the table. Obviously everyone wants you there, but some felt it would be weird for you since you left, and you’d probably rather not. Either way, I’m overruling them and insisting you come. It’s from seven tonight, at Edward’s apartment. Please come. We really miss you. But – for the record – I’m so blown away by what you’re doing at the charity. So proud xx
The text fills me with such a strange mix of emotions. For a minute, I struggle to grab onto them. Every time I think I’ve got a handle, they slip away. How do I feel?How do I feel? I don’t know. Shit, I really don’t. I’ve become so accustomed to naming my emotions in recent months, but this? I just don’t know. I desperately want to call my new therapist, Dina, for advice, but I resist. I don’t want to start using her as a crutch, not when I’m finally feeling quite mentally good.
Also, we haven’t got to a place yet where she knows the full backstory of these last few months, and I don’t think we could cram it all into the five and a half hours we have left of the day before this dinner deadline.
The therapy collective get together is tonight. At Edward’s, of all places! Do I want to see them? Do I want to seehim?
I re-read the message, wondering what to do.
